


Trust Me, I'm A Doctor

by openhearts



Category: Bones (TV), House M.D.
Genre: F/M, one hundred parentheses were unduly used in the making of this fic, the crossover porn three people wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-08
Updated: 2009-06-08
Packaged: 2019-07-29 10:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16262066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: Originally posted on Livejournal on 6/8/2009 for Porn Battle VIII





	Trust Me, I'm A Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal on 6/8/2009 for Porn Battle VIII

Five minutes after he meets a petite blonde doctor in the ER she’s taking him up to the surgical floor and he’s kind of hyperventilating, feeling like an idiot. When he asks if there’s somewhere he can go for a minute to collect himself she obliges and shows him to an empty sleep room for the doctors on long shifts. 

Mostly what he remembers is she waivered in the doorway and asked him if he was going to be okay, touched his shoulder or something, and then he saw her eyes really clearly and realized she was sitting on a bed next to him and then it all just . . . well it got a lot better after that.

 

“Who was that guy you were talking to in the elevator?”  
(Slaps his hands onto her sweat-slippery hips while she grinds.)

“My old boss. Why?”  
(Pushes her hair off her forehead and runs her tongue over the beads of sweat forming on her top lip.)

“I just – oh god – I noticed a lot of – fucking Christ! – tension . . .”  
(Scraping his teeth over one of her nipples so he doesn’t notice the strange cringing smile before her brow furrows with the divine pain he’s inflicting on her.)

“House is tension, always has been.”  
(Cradles his head against her chest, fingertips pressing cool over his hot scalp.)

“Were you two ever intimate – fuck – sexually?”  
(Lays back, finds the curve of her back with one hand and her clit with his other thumb.)

“Why does that – gasp – matter?”  
(Braces one hand on his arm, feels a tug through her thighs as she leans back, legs folded in half on either side of his hips.)

(Flips them over and presses one of her legs over his shoulder and her mouth opens (she’s a little shocked, because, hell, he can’t be more than twenty-five and besides he just didn’t look like the type to have a move like that up his dress shirt sleeve) so he can lick into her mouth again.)

(Sucks his bottom lip in and says a silent ‘thank you’ to yoga because seriously, he can’t be more than twenty-five and she . . . can.)

“Doesn’t I guess. Just an observation.”  
(Wraps her other leg tighter around his hips and grins through heavy breathing.)

“Why did you look like you were about to cry in the ER?”  
(Successfully wipes the cocky grin off his mouth with that one. Wonders if he’ll remember he still has thumbs or if she’ll have to do it herself.)

“Told you. One of my patients – subjects – is in surgery. You like that?”  
(Remembers he has thumbs. Chases circles around her clit again.)

“Sub – gasps – subjects?”  
(Thanks the god she doesn’t believe in for thumbs.)

“I asked you first.”  
(Stalls for time while walking fingers up her ribs with his other hand.)

“– gibberish – Yes, fuck, don’t stop. Your turn.”  
(Floats a hand over his that’s palming her left breast.)

Ironically, that’s when she comes, so it’s not really his turn. 

But he obliges, flinging her leg off his shoulder and diving down to swallow her yell into his mouth. His hand crushed between them, all sweat and slick and hot on their skin so it’s hard to tell whose is whose.

He knows she can feel him still pulsing inside her while he lets her come down. She hooks her ankles behind his back and somehow reaches through their legs to palm his balls with one hand and then it’s definitely his turn.  
After a few minutes of heavy breathing, when his forehead is still pressed into her shoulder:

“Your turn.”  
(Taps her fingers on his forearms.)

(Chuckles into the sheets.)  
“He’s my subject. I’m a psychologist with the FBI. I can’t really say more about it. You understand.”

“Yeah.”  
(Trails the backs of her fingernails back and forth over his skin.)

“It’s just. Yeah. I really can’t.”  
(Brings his head up and scratches one eyebrow distractedly.)

(Awkward pause before he smiles and kisses her, kisses her deep and long enough that they both start to think about another go, but not so much that they go through with it.)

The pull apart, he disposes of the condom and they start to dress, pulling dry clothes over sweaty swollen skin. He passes her her scrub top (reads the embroidered name “Dr. Cameron,” and she smiles) and a diamond ring on a chain falls out of the pocket. They both stare at it on the floor for a minute.

“I, uh.”

“Yeah.”

She turns away, hides her pained expression in the t-shirt she pulls over her head. She takes in a shaky breath while her hands automatically gather her hair back into a pony tail before she realizes the elastic isn’t around her wrist anymore. She turns her face to the side.

“Do you have-”

His steady gaze at the ring breaks, flicks to the elastic lying on the floor a foot away. He leans down and picks them both up, drops them into her waiting palm. He turns back away to buckle his belt and it’s her turn to stare at the jewelry. She forgets her hair for a moment, lets it slip back around her shoulders. But she can’t leave it down; he’s given her sex-hair. She drops the chain back around her neck and draws her palms underneath to let it rest against her neck. It feels too cold. She pulls the elastic tight and lets it snap hard on her fingertips.

She sits on the bed to pull on her shoes. She clears her throat. “Who’s your friend’s doctor?”

He turns to her but won’t make eye contact; he’s buttoning his cuffs.

“Jurzik, I think? Dr. Brennan, one of my other subjects, Booth’s . . . she knows him, Jurzik, so that’s why he’s here.”

She stands, and they face each other for a moment, locking eyes and searching faces. His suit is wrinkled and so are her scrubs. Their mouths are red and he needs to do something about his hair.

“Jurzik’s good. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

She hands him his tie, which had at some point been draped over the footboard. He takes it, the slip of material slithering a little between their hands. She holds onto it until he’ll look at her again. She smiles a little, but all the corners of her face are still pulled down.

She picks her stethoscope and lab coat up from the chair next to the door. 

“Um, can you wait here like five minutes?” she asks softly, hand on the locked door knob.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

He listens to the door open just enough for her to get through and close behind her. He locks it again behind her, runs his hands through his hair (not helping the situation any) and lets out a long breath. He thinks for a strange moment about making the bed, but that seems like it might be too paranoid, so he ties his tie in the mirror, presses tight fingertips over his eyes and prepares to head back into reality. He’s pretty sure he’s going to need some therapy.

He passes a scruffy blonde surgeon in the hall way, who tells him in a lilting Australian accent where to find the waiting room.


End file.
